


it's a job well done

by Hymn



Series: Voltron: Legendary Defender [9]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Barebacking, Begging, Bottom Lance (Voltron), Cock Rings, Derogatory Language, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Lance Is A Kinky Shit, M/M, Minor Choking, Mirror Universe, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Lance (Voltron), Possessive Behavior, Public Humiliation, Public Sex, Punishment, Sexual Violence, The Author Does Not Know How To Use Sex Toys, Violence, if i've forgotten anything pls let me know!, kind of?, pls forgive me??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 19:23:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15589008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hymn/pseuds/Hymn
Summary: In a universe where Earth has been irreparably changed by Galra control, Captain Takashi Shirogane of the Imperial Galra StarshipChampionmust remind Lieutenant Lance McClain to whom he belongs.--That bead of sweat on his nose trembles, then falls, splashing on the back of his hand where he has it splayed out on the edge of his station. All the tendons stand out, stark, as he tries to dig his fingers into unyielding metal. His other hand is curled tightly into a fist at his side, shaking, wanting to twitch toward the knife hidden at the small of his back -- or the stiletto in his boot -- or to give in and grip himself tight in his hand and --Shiro would gut him, probably, for the blatant disrespect of that action.





	it's a job well done

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by too many mirrorverse star trek fics, holy fuck. if you don't know what that is, uh: non-con and murder are pretty par for the course, so are displays of degrading domination. this is honestly pretty fluffy in comparison to some of the stuff i've read. 
> 
> for the record, tho: i don't know anything about anything. alternate title is "good gracious," because _goodness gracious_ , what have i done?? this some messed up shit, y'all.

It is, of course, Lance’s own fucking fault.

Tremors are wracking his hands and quivering in the tensed muscle of his thighs; sweat drips down his forehead. He can feel a single bead glide past his furrowed eyebrow, curl down the slope of his nose and linger there at the tip. Not unlike the precome that keeps the front of his pants damp, actually, a shameful spread of moisture that darkens the material where his erection is tenting it.

 _God_. He honestly doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.

“Lieutenant McClain,” his captain asks, soft but clear -- and Lance can hear the entire bridge crew draw to attention. Hope swings wildly through him all at once, even as a palpable tension pulls the air tight, and Lance tighter still, so that he feels as though he might fucking _snap_ with just one good, hard blow. 

He craves it, in that moment. Anything -- _anything_ \-- for some fucking relief, _fuck_.

“S-sir,” he manages after a dry swallow. He blinks rapidly at his console. The lights and numbers are meaningless blurs, but that’s all right, for now; they’re in dead space, traveling faster than light, coordinates already locked. 

The captain timed his punishment well, of course. Takashi Shirogane is nothing if not a viciously competent bastard of a perfectionist. 

That bead of sweat on his nose trembles, then falls, splashing on the back of his hand where he has it splayed out on the edge of his station. All the tendons stand out, stark, as he tries to dig his fingers into unyielding metal. His other hand is curled tightly into a fist at his side, shaking, wanting to twitch toward the knife hidden at the small of his back -- or the stiletto in his boot -- or to give in and grip himself tight in his hand and --

Shiro would gut him, probably, for the blatant disrespect of that action.

 _Fuck_ , jesus shitting fuck why is he such an _idiot_.

He can feel the stares of the rest of the bridge crew -- Matt out and out leering, because he’s a fucking risk-taking son of a bitch -- and it makes his skin pull like the surface of a drum, his heart pounding out a rhythm against it. Everyone is waiting, and Shiro knows this -- has been keeping them _all_ in suspense. Lance bites his lip so hard he tastes blood.

Finally, his captain says, “You’re looking a little...flushed. Are you hot, Lieutenant?”

The breath Lance drags in hurts almost as much as his fucking _balls_.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Hmm. How hot, Lieutenant?”

And -- _fuck_. There’s that dark god damned tease in his captain’s voice. A low, growling murmur, all sweet deception. Lance can’t stop the groan that spills out of his throat from deep within, guttural and unbelievably horny. The shame flames his face red; makes his cock jerk with a fresh wave of arousal.

“So hot,” he rasps out. “C-captain.”

“Hot and bothered, hm?”

Lance shuts his eyes, gasping. He’s just glad that Pidge and Hunk aren’t here to see this -- Hunk still hasn’t gotten over the last time the captain disciplined him in public. A small mercy, but Lance will take it, especially since he’s about to _break_ , and it’s going to be messy, fuck, so, so messy, he --

“ _Please_ ,” he grits out, panting. “Captain. Fuck, _fuck_ , Captain, c’mon. _Please_ , I...”

Indulgent, Shiro tells him, “Come here, then. Come beg me on your knees, McClain.”

Just like that, the tension holding him steady _snaps_.

He almost sobs, except he can’t quite get the breath for it. The permission to stop pretending he’s not a complete mess is such a _relief_ , he’s nearly euphoric with it. He wants to fucking crawl on his hands and knees with his head bowed low in disgrace and kiss Shiro’s stupid, regulation shiny _boots_ , but he’s too afraid to take that long.

He has no patience or dignity left; it’s all been torn to shreds. And he knows he should be grateful that it’s only been an hour, but _fuck_ , fuck it _hurts_. This is different from edging, from the cock cage Shiro made him special, this -- this is _torture_ , and it’s brutal, and Lance wants to fucking _weep_ at just the hint of a chance for it to end before he gets some sort of permanent damage to his fucking _dick_. 

“Take it off,” he moans, miserable, after he’s stumbled from his console and onto his knees in front of Shiro’s chair at the center of the bridge in record time. “ _Please_ , Captain, I swear I’ll be good, I’ll -- _fuck_ , just -- please --” he hiccups, and he wants to put his palms on Shiro’s knees to plead even more extravagantly but he knows better, he _does_.

He knew better than to flirt with those girls at the last space station, too, right where his captain and half the crew of the IGSS _Champion_ could see it -- he’s just a fucking _moron_.

“ _Please_ ,” Lance whispers, fingers digging into the meat of his thighs. “T-take it off!”

“Lieutenant McClain,” Shiro says, with a small smile. “Did you just presume to tell me what to do?”

It takes a few blinks, but eventually the tears in his eyes clear enough to fully take Shiro in -- chin resting casually on his palm, elbow on an armrest, gray eyes level and watchful and so sharp they’re nearly lethal. He looks as powerful as ever, a muscular mountain of battle-tested competence in black and purple uniform, knees splayed casually wide. 

But the expression on his face in nearing dangerous levels; Lance hadn’t thought his heart could go faster, but it sure fucking _tries_.

“ _Sir_ ,” he cannot help the way his voice cracks on the syllable, gone high and frantic. “Sir, _no_ , I would -- I would _never_ \-- I. Just, fuck, I-I can’t --”

Nothing but heat, it seems, is left of him; red at his vision, a molten star at his core ready to supernova. Nothing else is left, because he was never built to withstand this -- the degradation and the pain and the pleasure all mingling to become some chaotic tincture liable to explode at the first hint of impact. 

From the way Shiro straightens slowly in his chair, eyes narrowing further, Lance does not think that impact will smack of anything like kindness.

It doesn’t stop him from wanting it, though.

A keen falls from his lips, unbidden. He struggles on his knees, trying to rise like Shiro has his hand gripped stern on the nape of his neck; feels them slip out from under him and instead lets it spread his thighs wider, his back arching lewdly. Just, fuck! Lance would fucking god damn present himself like a bitch in heat in front of the whole fucking Empire if he just had permission to get his pants down around his ankles, _fuck_ , he needs --

When he speaks, Shiro is the picture of cool, calm control, voice like a still, dark pond -- freezing and bottomless, ready to drown. “Lieutenant. You can take it off at any time. Why don’t you?”

Lance sags, a little. At least this is an easy question.

“Can’t,” he grits out between clenched teeth. “Not -- mine.”

Shiro’s brows quirk, a smug little glint of satisfaction showing, now. “Oh? What isn’t? Go on, then, Lieutenant McClain. Explain to the bridge crew just what, exactly, does not belong to you.”

He has to lick his lips; has to try and gather enough moisture to form the answer. “M-me.”

“You don’t belong to yourself?”

“No, sir.”

All around him, he can hear the crew breathing. Can hear the shift of their uniforms as they adjust themselves and can feel their eyes watching, some side-long, some with disgust, others with banked hunger. This is the way of it -- of their world -- and this is as close to having Lance as any of these back-stabbing assholes will ever get.

Because --

“Who do you belong to?” Shiro asks, voice like steel, now, no longer sheathed in patient velvet.

Lance moans. “ _You_ , sir. I belong to y-you. E-everything, it all --” he has to gulp down a watery breath before he can continue, body clenching, hungry and desperate, “-- all belongs to you, T-Taka--”

_Another mistake._

Shiro’s boot clips him in the chin, sends him sprawling. It knocks the wind out of Lance’s lungs but more than that it sends him slamming dick-first into the cold hard floor, and fuck, _fuck_ , he’s yowling with it, shaking, and he can’t even figure out what the fuck is going on until he’s already been hauled up by a cybernetic fist in his hair, fingers so tight they’re nearly pulling it from the roots.

Everything inside him is chaos, and that’s the only reason he goes for his knife.

He hears the distant _tsk_ of Shiro’s tongue against his teeth, and then his wrist is in a tight grip, pulled high and vicious against his back. “ _Lance_ ,” he hisses, right into his ear, low enough not to carry, and damn it, _damn it_. “You _fool_ , don’t make this worse.”

Lance goes still, save for the shuddering of his chest as he strains to take in air.

“ _Take me_ ,” he sighs out, and the rigid stillness melts to limp pliancy, hanging like a rag doll from Shiro’s hands. It’s the only thing he can think of to try and salvage this. There might be some who wonder, but no one to _know_ with any plausible certainty that he has almost uttered Shiro’s first name in public, which he never allows the use of, like a familiar entreaty -- a claim of intimacy that reeks of weakness waiting to be exploited. 

Really, Shiro should know better. This -- the need for punishment -- might be all Lance’s doing, but Shiro should have known what would happen if he broke Lance down like this -- like he loved. He can hardly think for the pain of his erection, the need to orgasm, to dip his balls in some fucking _ice water_ to just numb the sharp agony for a second, how the hell is he supposed to keep his shit together like _this_ , wrecked beyond endurance?

“Please,” he garbles out. “C-captain, take me. It -- I belong to y-you. I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_. Please, I just, fuck. _Fuck_ , sir, I promise I won’t -- I w-won’t do it a-again.”

“You won’t,” Shiro tells him. “You belong to _me_.”

“ _Yes_. Captain, _yes_.”

Like this, Shiro has him on better display. He faces the whole of the bridge, and he can just make out the squinty-eyed stares. It makes his skin shiver like their gazes are a physical affliction, brushing against him in stinging bites, and Lance is a wreck. He knows it -- they all know it -- they can _see_ it, and it has him whimpering in back of his throat, now, little “ahn! ahn!” noises that he just lets fall, helpless to stop them.

He’s always been a kinky little fuck. It’s served him well, helping him claw his way higher than any of those power-hungry, worthless dicks at the Garrison had thought he could manage with his test scores and loud mouth.

And he’s especially thankful for it, now, when Shiro growls out, “Expose yourself, Lieutenant,” and Lance’s hands are shaking but _eager_ for this, to be good, to be owned out here for all these sad fucks to see, because Lance’s loud mouth and stubborn determination netted him the _captain_ as his lover, scored him a position of safety and security and none of them -- _none_ of them! -- have ever once tasted Shiro the way Lance has.

Sweetly, chastely, secretly devoted, _oh_.

Really, this punishment is harder on Shiro than it is on Lance. His captain is never needlessly cruel, though he is implacably stern -- and Lance had trapped him in this, making his transgression so public. He knows Shiro would have preferred to take him over his knee in private, or spend an entire shift in bed, edging him until he cried with it, so he could kiss away the tears, after.

Instead, Lance snaps the button of his trousers, unzips -- his engorged, angry cock practically flings itself out of the confines and Lance sobs, real tears spilling sudden down his cheeks, because even the still, cool air is a relief as opposed to the maddening brush of textured fabric. 

He shoves with a clumsy hand until he’s bared all the way down to his knees, and then he stills again, back still arched with Shiro’s fingers in this hair, arm still twisted back behind him, and lets them all look.

 _God_ , that would be enough to make him come if he just _could_.

“Please,” he moans, the sound rough and broken even to his own ears. “Please, please, pleeeaase.”

Shiro lets his arm go, but Lance keeps it folded tight against the small of his back, just in case. “Look at you,” says Shiro, voice a dark, rumbling kind of rasp. Lance wants to feel it _inside_ him, fucking him open. “Such a filthy, hungry whore. Who does this belong to?” He flicks a finger against the head of Lance’s dick, and for a moment the agony of it strokes straight through Lance, like burning fingers on the inside of his skin threatening to burn him to a husk, making his eyes roll back in his head with a desperate inhale.

Jesus _fucking_ christ, that’s good.

“You,” he wheezes. “It’s yours, Captain!”

“Mine,” Shiro agrees, fingers flexing in his hair. He flicks Lance’s erection again, twice in quick, brutal succession, and Lance’s body tries to curl forward around himself, a mindless kind of drive for self-preservation. But Shiro just growls a little, and Lance is shuddering, jutting his hips forward, instead. 

He’s dripping, he’s so hard. Thick, shimmering dollops of precome oozing from his slit and falling with little sluggish _plops_ to the bridge floor.

“Turn around,” Shiro grates out. “ _Now_ , Lieutenant.”

Wobbling a little, groaning when it pulls his hair in a vicious snarl, tangled around the hand Shiro won’t remove from his hair, Lance does. Gets himself into position so that everyone has a perfect view of his ass -- still sporting a fading bite mark on the left cheek, actually. He shivers, waiting, _hoping_ \--

Shiro doesn’t let him down.

“Spread them,” he says. “Show everyone that greedy hole of yours. Just gonna let anyone fill you up, McClain? Let anyone bend you over and fuck you?”

“ _No_ ,” Lance begs. “No, no, never! Just you, sir. Just, ah! _Fuck_.”

Somehow, despite the way his vision is officially starting to blur out, the pounding pulse in his temples making him dizzier and dizzier, the way his body feels heavy with need and tender with pain -- he manages to get his fingers digging into his cheeks, spreads himself as wide as he can and presents his fluttering hole to his observers. He can feel it clenching, releasing, greedy for Shiro to feed it his cock, his fingers, _anything_. 

Lance tips forward, just a little. And Shiro is there, because of course he is -- he always is, in the end, in all the ways Lance has ever needed anyone. 

For a moment, Lance can rest his forehead against Shiro’s hip, feel the half-hard heat of him from within his pants, twitching against his cheek as he gets harder listening to Lance, wanton and sluttish, just for him. It’s reassuring, and Lance wants to lean in, press his mouth wide and sloppy against him through the fabric -- get it nice and wet, get Shiro hard enough to fuck him until he’s screaming.

“Please,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut.

Shiro just bends over, slides a finger along his crack and dips his finger right into Lance’s ass,dry and with absolutely no hesitation. Crooks it at the first knuckle and _pulls_ , stretching him enough that he gapes open a little. The low, simmering burn of pleasure-pain at the rough treatment forces a groan like a gunshot out of him; harsh and loud, ricocheting around the bridge. 

_More_ , he thinks. 

“Who does this belong to, McClain? This greedy, filthy hole of yours, so eager to gobble up any passing cock. Who does it belong to? Who do _you_ belong to?”

“You, C-captain. _You_. Please, _please_. Take it off! Take it -- _unh_ , Captain, I need you to --” he’s rubbing his forehead against Shiro’s hip, whining, shaking, “-- I can’t, I _can’t_ , I’m sorry. S-so sorry, please, forgive me, sir. I need --”

“You need what I give you,” Shiro tells him, almost dangerously gentle. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Lance sobs.

And it’s not often Shiro does this -- fucks anyone on the bridge. He doesn’t like it, thinks its messy and unnecessary; undignified, even. 

But he pulls Lance up and into his lap, turns him around so that they’re all watching him, staring at his flushed cheeks and the sweat that’s making his hair cling to his face; examining the way his mouth gasps open, his cock jutting hard and angry in its cock ring, erect for _too fucking long_ , and he’s mewling for it, barely even letting Shiro finish slicking his length with lube before he’s sinking back onto it, feeling Shiro’s erection splitting him open in a single, friction-hot slide, and then Lance is groaning like he’s _dying_ for it.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he chants, ablaze with the need to come, with the sweet knife-bright agony of being denied it. “God, love -- love your c-cock, Captain. Want it i-in me all the -- ah! -- tiiime, yes, please! God, don’t -- don’t _stop_ , Captain!”

In reward, Shiro wraps that Galra-gifted hand around Lance’s neck and uses it to control his erratic movements. A threat; a claim. A steady hand to guide him until he’s bouncing on Shiro’s dick, tight channel clinging to the fat dick reshaping him from the inside. 

_Mine_ , Shiro’s hand says. _Mine, mine, mine._

“Yours,” Lance chokes out, over and over. Makes a mantra of it, a prayer. Makes sure every other sick fuck on this bridge knows it -- he belongs to Shiro. Shiro’s _his_. 

When Shiro finally takes off the cock ring the relief is so intense -- so sharp and heady and mind blowing -- that he whites out for a good minute. 

Eventually, he comes to collapsed back against Shiro’s chest, Shiro’s teeth clamped down hard on the meat of his shoulder and his hands a bruising grip on his hips, forcing Lance up and down as he takes his pleasure. Lance is just -- floating, really, limp and pliant and utterly covered in come. He wriggles, makes pleased, hopeful cries as his brain starts to come back on line -- pushes down into the thrusts, squeezing tight until Shiro snarls, finally, metal fingers lifting back to his throat and digging in almost tight enough to have Lance whiting out again, spunk filling him up hot and _good_ , fuck yes.

“Thank you,” he manages to slur out. “Sir, _thank_ you.”

That gets him another lazy pulse of come up his ass, and Lance very nearly purrs, gone boneless with satisfaction.

Oh, but he really hopes his captain will let him finish up his shift like this: come leaking out his ass, a complete fucking mess. Wants everyone’s gaze to catch on dried jizz and trembling limbs and mused hair and just, fucking linger on him, knowing what it means.

 _Mine_ , Lance thinks, vicious and private and so fucking smug.

He knows they’ll all see it; he’s counting on it.

**Author's Note:**

> babes the internet says don't wear a cock ring for over a half an hour max, i think they mean it!


End file.
